


Broken Glass

by greysynonyms



Series: Detroit: Become Human Songfics [7]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Androids, Canon Compliant, Connor-centric, CyberLife (Detroit: Become Human), Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Dpd, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff, Future, Jericho (Detroit: Become Human), Markus is only mentioned, Police officers, Pre-Revolution, Revolution, SO MUCH FLUFF, alcohol use, anger issues, hank is only mentioned, mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 12:32:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15219230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greysynonyms/pseuds/greysynonyms
Summary: Because Connor left for Jericho on his own and you're not handling it well.





	Broken Glass

**Author's Note:**

> “You know I only wanted fun then you got me all fucked up on love”

       Your apartment is in absolute disarray; your mismatched chairs are thrown around your tiny dining room, one broken, one used to smash the doors of your old pantry--shards of glass litter the floor, some have already embedded themselves into the soles of your feet but you’re too numb to care. Pillows have been thrown haphazardly into walls and shelves, knocking over trinkets and old-school movie cases. You sit at the center of it all on your beaten up couch, watching disinterestedly as your feet slowly leak blood onto the coffee table where you have them propped. 

       You’re home alone, stewing over the information Hank gave you earlier that day; you thought that maybe getting the anger out of your system, that a good bout of destruction, would make you feel better but it’s only succeeded in making you feel worse. Your knuckles sting from punching the drywall so many times--you try not to think about the damage fees you’ll have to pay. You lurch forward, snag the bottle of whiskey off the table, and take deep swigs until the burn of the liquor is too much. As much as you try to stamp down the thoughts racing through your mind, nothing seems to quiet them.

       Connor had discovered the location of Jericho.

       Connor had been sent to Jericho-- _ alone _ \--to infiltrate their ranks and dispose of Markus. 

       Connor was-- _ is _ \--alone; alone, surrounded by potentially hostile androids. 

       Connor could die, could never make it back to you, not  _ really _ anyway--not if they just transfer his memory from one unit to another. Sure, they would look the same, sound the same, but his hands wouldn’t be the same hands that held you through a panic attack after Hank was nearly killed, his voice wouldn’t be the same voice that had spoken your deepest secrets, things you had never told anyone else ever, into your ear simply because he was perceptive enough to just _ notice _ them. 

       You still remember when you first met him, thought of him as nothing more than a useful piece of equipment to aid investigations. You remember the first time you heard him crack a joke at Hank’s expense, in that matter-o-fact, effortlessly proper voice of his--you had laughed so hard you spilled your drink all over yourself at the bar that night. You remember the first time you sat alone in a squad car with him because Hank was hungover and hadn’t showed up to work and Connor was, as always, impatient; the android had asked you questions about yourself, about your interests and about your past with Hank, for the entire car-ride. He had also asked you if there was anything you wanted to know about him, and seemed almost troubled any time there was a question he couldn’t answer for you. You remember your budding friendship with something--someone--who you never thought you would be able to develop a friendship with--you remember opening up to him after he called you out on feelings that you still hadn’t come to terms with yet. 

       You remember the feel of his lithe arms around you the first time he had hugged you of his own accord.

       You remember what his artificial breath felt like against the skin of your neck as he spoke calming words so close to your ear. 

       You remember what he looked like, sounded like, when he had his fingers buried inside you, under the shallow pretense of helping you out.

       You remember when things were simple where Connor was involved--when he was a friend, an important one, and nothing more. 

       You remember how fun it was before everything got fucked up.

       Stupid fucking androids (you can almost hear Hank’s voice agreeing with the sentiment in your head). Stupid fucking feelings. Stupid fucking Connor with his stupid fucking freckles and his impossibly deep, brown eyes. 

       You slam more whiskey, relish in the burn and the sting of tears in your eyes.

       You can’t believe Hank hadn’t told you until after Connor was already gone. You curse how smart he was to wait, despite how pissed off you are. The lieutenant knows you too well--knew you would have fought with Connor directly and knew that it would have shattered you to hear Connor tell you how irrational your feelings are. Your fists clench and you down more of the whiskey as you remember the horrible words you had thrown at Hank after he informed you; at least it was easier to yell at someone with a sense of guilt than it was to yell at a stubborn android.

       You scoff. That fucking word again.  _ Feelings _ . Where had feelings ever got you? You had fought Hank tooth and nail to follow after Connor, to demand that someone,  _ anyone _ needed to be there to back him up. Cyberlife had listened to none of it, and Connor, with his deep brown eyes and the ridiculous little upturn of the lips when he smiled, had been left to deal with the life or death mission on his own.

       You stand, stumble when pain shoots through your nerves as glass presses deeper into your skin; you fall to the ground just as your front door swings open. “Go away, Hank,” you slur uselessly, tears from the burn of the whiskey steadily turning to tears of sadness and regret. You don’t look up at the lieutenant, at your old friend, because you can’t let him see you in such a pathetic state over an android, his android partner of all things. 

       Hands grab your shoulders, and even through the haze of alcohol buzzing in your mind you can still register that they aren’t the large, calloused hands of a police lieutenant. You hear his voice--god, that  _ voice _ \--calling your name, asking if you’re okay, coated in a concern you weren’t aware androids were capable of.

       You have only enough time to meet his eyes (notice that he looks  _ damn good _ in a beanie), whisper a sweet, relieved “Connor”, and then his hand is curling around the back of your neck and dragging you forward until his lips find yours in an urgent, heady kiss. Those slender fingers wrap themselves around the roots of your hair to hold you steady, grounding you, and you’re thankful for that because a moment later he’s angling his head, slanting his lips over yours and pressing his tongue into your mouth to seek your own. He greedily swallows down the little noise of surprise that escapes your throat, fingers tightening their hold on you to the point of near-pain. 

       You have to place your hands against his chest and push as best you can when you become hard-pressed for a breath and he seems to understand because he pulls back just enough for you to gasp fresh air into your burning lungs. 

       “My apologies, detective,” he speaks, forehead resting against your own, lips brushing yours gently with each word. “It appears as though my desire to kiss you caused me to neglect your need for air. I assure you, it will not happen again.”

       Your head is spinning. Your lips are searing hot and swollen, the taste of artificial saliva coating the inside of your mouth. It takes you longer than you’d like to admit to register that Connor spoke at all. “Wait…” you mutter. “D-Desire?” The android clutches your shoulders, looking deep into your eyes. Your breath catches when you see something swirling in the brown hues that you’ve never seen before. “Connor? Are you--?”

       “I am deviant,” he confirms, and he sounds a little disappointed (in himself, or in humans now that he’s aware, you’re not sure), and perhaps a tad frightened. “I helped Markus escape Jericho, and now Cyberlife will find and dismantle me for failing my mission. Before that happens...I-I wanted…”

       You’ve never heard Connor have trouble articulating anything before, in all the time you’ve known him he’s always been so well-spoken and sure of himself. Even though the idea of his deviancy--of Cyberlife  _ destroying _ him because of his deviancy--scares the shit out of you, you can’t help but find it incredibly endearing. “You wanted to see me?” you ask incredulously, finishing his thought for him before he can put it into words properly. 

       “Yes,” he breathes, as though he’s relieved that you understand. “I really wanted to see you.” 

       Your hands find the collar of his shirt and grip it tight. “Why?”

       “I believe my deviancy has finally explained to me why your presence makes my thirium pump beat at an irregular rhythm, detective.” 

       The confession surprises you, and the thought that he’s feeling something so  _ human _ because of you makes your insides burn pleasantly.  Before you have a chance to ask he surges forward and catches your lips again, slides his tongue over your teeth like he’s been dying to do it. His hands find your thighs and he pulls you forward into his lap, but he pauses when he hears your sharp intake of air through your nose. You know he’s going to stop as soon as he sees your feet, you just know it, so you grab either side of his face and really kiss him, the way you’ve been wanting to for so long. You press as tightly to him as possible, slide your tongue over his, against the hard-palate of his mouth, pour all your feelings into it until he gently pries you away.

       “I’m detecting a rise in cortisol, is everything okay?”

       “I hurt my feet while ransacking my apartment, but it’s fine,” you say quickly. You see his eyebrows draw down, notice the way he tilts his head to look but you hold his face tighter, force him to keep looking into your eyes. “Connor, I promise, I’m fine.” You remember his previous words, decide to change the subject. “Exactly how long have you felt like this?”

       His worried expression shifts into something closer to sheepishness. “The night at the bar when I noticed the way you look at Lieutenant Anderson…”

       You remember the night, most of it at least. You remember dancing and drinking and letting Hank goad you into more shots than you should’ve taken. You remember Hank’s bet that you wouldn’t be able to beat Connor in a game of pool, and you remember drunkenly thinking how outrageous that was when you’d been playing that table many nights for _years_ \--your alcohol-addled mind hadn’t really taken into account the fact that Connor could map out exact trajectories in order to effortlessly sink every single one of his balls before you even got the chance to shoot. You remember demanding a rematch, Hank laughing hysterically the whole time; you remember watching Hank as he laughed, watching the way his eyes crinkle in the corners, listening to the deep, rumbling, infection sound that you love so much. You remember Connor’s words like he just said them to you--you remember the way they hadn’t been phrased like a question at all.

_        You’re in love with him. _

       It feels like that was so long ago, way before your emotions got all screwed up and warped and wrapped around the android now in front of you, confessing his deviancy (his  _ deviancy _ , the word that was completely taboo to him only months ago) and his feelings and everything that you never imagined he would ever be able to confess. 

       “…I remember feeling something I couldn’t place at the time. I believe it was jealousy,” Connor concludes. “I wanted you to look at me the way you looked at him.” One side of his mouth turns up in a lopsided smirk then, any trace of sweetness disappearing from his voice, “The night in the kitchen, the first time you called out my name--”

       Your cheeks flush and you slap your hands over his mouth to stop him--you’re not sure your heart can withstand reliving that moment, that night, the way he felt against you. “Yeah,” you say instead, “you’ve been feeling like this for a while, I get it.” He looks so happy with himself when you pull your hands away that you can’t help but smile along with him. You slide your hand down his chest, feel the beating of his artificial heart through the layers of his clothing. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” you whisper. You can think of so many other ways the night could have ended, so many hours spent wondering if Connor was okay; you can imagine learning that he never made it back from Jericho, the devastation of never knowing you’d never be able to see him again . Your eyes well with relieved tears and you tilt your head up again, place a gentle kiss on his lips. “I’m so, so glad you’re okay.”

       “As am I,” he agrees, wrapping his arms around you in an embrace that feels just like you remember--it’s memory burned into the back of your mind, bound by a yearning you buried deep for so long. “Though it is rather unfortunate that I can't say the same of your apartment.” 

       You snort a laugh into his shoulder. “I don’t handle worry very well.”

       He leans back just enough for you to see him tap his LED, “Evidently, neither do I.” 

       You sit there with him for a long time, smiling at each other like stupid, love-struck teens, basking in the happiness and relief, and in the knowledge that you’re together again. You know that the world is crumbling around you, that Markus escaping means more violence is to come, that the androids will continue to fight for their revolution. You know that Connor’s deviancy poses so many more problems than it does solutions, that Cyberlife will be coming after him.

       You know that you will never let Cyberlife anywhere near him.

       You know that Hank will protect him, continue to fight by his side.

       You know that you’ll protect him, fight with him, for him.

       You know that you love him.

       And that’s all that matters. 

**Author's Note:**

> Based on "Where Did the Party Go?" by Fall Out Boy.
> 
> Hello! I ran out of fics that I had ready to go, so the gaps between them will be a little longer now. But don't worry, I've still got a lot more up my sleeve! <3


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